Things He Shouldn't Want
by Lone One
Summary: Remus Lupin ponders an old photograph and faces up to some of the fears and desires he has long kept locked away.


_Hello all! I've finally produced something to share with you, and hope that someone will enjoy it or get something out of it. I was contemplating _Order of the Phoenix_ the other day, and the photo that Moody shows Harry is an element that always fascinated me in the book. It caught my attention and imagination, and I always thought it one of the most heartrending mental images in the series, and J.K. did such an amazing job with it, it really made me want to write about it. So anyway, here's my offering in honor of that picture. Enjoy Lone One. _

The photograph lay on the table in front of him, silent faces smiling and laughing. He knew he had been staring at the picture for far too long; the minor aches and twinges in his back were enough to remind him that he was not as young as he used to be, and that his body objected to sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair for such long stretches of time. Still, although he knew he ought to move, ought to be doing something productive, he could not help but remain seated, staring at the old photograph.

Moody had given it to him a few days ago, remarking that since "young Potter" hadn't seemed too keen to hold onto it, he though Remus might enjoy having it. It was, indeed, the only picture Remus had of the old crowd- there hadn't really been time for photographs then, and the one had only been taken because they were all gathered to celebrate Frank and Alice Longbottom's wedding. Remus sighed, running his hand through his greying hair as he thought. Moody had seemed less than happy to part with the picture, but seemed to understand that Remus needed it more- a tangible link to his past. He had never been much of one for photographs, always preferring to duck out before a shot was taken, and notoriously bad at keeping them. His friends had often teased him for not having many photos, while they had albums full. He had never felt a great need for them, preferring the memories and pictures inside his own head, and so he kept only a few treasured images.

A picture of his parents, smiling and laughing at their own wedding, when they had been young and carefree, untroubled by the worries and sorrows that would plague them later in life- having a werewolf for a son would be enough to add lines to anyone's face, he supposed.

One picture of himself, James, Sirius, and Peter at the ages of eleven or twelve- the summer before their second year at Hogwarts, the other three had visited him at his home for a weekend, and his mother had taken a picture of them returning from a hard day of play in the woods; they were dirty and tired, covered with mud from wading in the creek, their hair full of twigs and leaves from climbing trees, browned from the sun, and all smiling as broadly as they could. Sirius had slung his arm over James' shoulder, and Peter wore a handkerchief tied over his head in an attempt to shield his fair hair from the sun.

A photo taken mere days before James and Lily were killed; Sirius and James stood side by side, as always, with Lily right next to James. Remus was holding a baby Harry, who was attempting to tug out large handfuls of his light brown hair. Peter had been taking the picture, so he did not appear in it; Remus was glad of that fact, as he was unable to keep himself from becoming angry at the sight of Peter with the others. He did not belong, had ceased to belong with the rest of them when he had sold his allegiance to Voldemort.

But now Remus had one more treasure to add to his small stash- the photograph of the entire Order from the First War. As he stared at it, he was mildly surprised at how strongly the emotions rushed back, the thoughts and feelings that he had attempted to bury for so long. The faces in the picture were so happy and pleasant that no one would ever guess that the people pictured were in the midst of a war for their lives. Caradoc Dearborn, Benjy Fenwick, the Prewetts, Dorcas Meadowes... all had been acquaintances of his, and some had been friends; they had all died before the end of the first war, most within a few months of the taking of the photograph. He remembered- oh, so well!- how much they had all worried. No one had dared to be the first to pick up a Daily Prophet for fear of the headlines, for fear that another familiar name would appear under the ghastly picture of the Dark Mark. No one would speak of their worry, because to admit that a friend was in danger was to come a step closer to losing them; if you never said anything, never admitted there was danger, then you could pretend for just a few minutes more that the world was normal. You could imagine, if only for a moment, that you lived a world that was not on the brink of destruction, or that you would be able to sleep at night without waking from nightmares that left you shaking; dreams of the deaths of friends, acquaintances, strangers... dreams of death.

And if you never admitted you knew of the danger, you never had to admit that your best friends were about to hide themselves away from the rest of the world. You never had to deal with the thought that some morning you would wake up to find their names in the paper, the Dark Mark above their cosy little cottage, their son dead for the sake of a threat that he did not pose. And then you would never have to deal with the guilt of thinking that perhaps you were placing them in danger by being around them when you were known to be a Dark Creature, targeted for recruitment by Voldemort's forces. It was easy enough to ignore letters from him promising equality and power, simple enough to forget whispered threats and promises made by masked men who attempted to stop you on the streets, to mutter words that would try to make you forsake everything you held dear. It was, in fact, too easy to forget and ignore and to close your eyes to the dangers of the world around you- except at night. In the darkness, however, there was no stopping the voices that whispered in your ears- _they're all going to die, you're going to die, he's going to destroy the world_- shut up- _Harry and James and Lily are going to die, Sirius is going to get himself killed for sheer bloody-minded stupidity, you're going to die because you won't turn-_ enough! But shouting at the voices doesn't make them quiet, and sleep is a precious commodity, not easy to come by, and disturbed by dark dreams when it comes.

And so Remus pondered as his back continued to complain and his eyes watered from the strain of staring at the faded picture, remembering the darkness of those times, surely he ought to be glad that they had passed. Even though war was once again upon them, things were better than they had been before; the Ministry was warned and armed, they had better weapons, more trained individuals, the ranks of Aurors had been replenished, and many of the old Death Eaters were dead or in prison or too afraid to move, and Voldemort was still weak. It was still possible to get a full night's sleep, or to read the paper in the mornings; it was even possible to go for days at a time without hearing whispers of _You-Know-Who_. Yes, times were certainly far brighter than they had been when the photo was taken, and Remus knew he ought to be glad for that.

But he wasn't.

Because if you gave him a choice, he would go back in a heartbeat.

Back to the sleepless nights and the days where you were too afraid to breathe, because the years in between had taught him well that fear was far easier to handle than the loneliness that came with the years of peace. His eyes hurt as he contemplated the picture. The picture said it all, really, because when you looked closely, the people in it were not just happy, but prepared. They were all on their guard, obviously watchful, and their faces already showed the strain of long nights and losses, and the hints of fear that they all strove to hide beneath confident smiles. They were all afraid, but they were together; they knew, above all else, that they had each other.

And now, so many years later, the world was on the brink of falling back into the same darkness again; a picture of the current Order would be much smaller and very different. Most of the original members were either dead or unfit for current service, while some of the old guard had been replaced by new faces- Bill Weasley and Tonks, among others. Remus felt removed from the Order, though, separated by the gulf of years that lay between the old picture and the present. While the past had been a time of great fear, there had been a sense of camaraderie that Remus missed greatly. Now James and Lily were gone, and Peter was worse than dead, and Sirius was lost to them behind the veil, and - and Remus realized that the prickling in his eyes was that of tears, silent and slow, that had come without a warning. He made no attempt to brush them away.

Remus felt terribly guilty. He knew that the past had been a terrible time for everyone, that the fear that had gripped the entire wizarding world lingered still, growing stronger with the rise of Voldemort's power. He knew, in his head, that everyone was glad that the past was, indeed, in the past. But he wanted it back, and would gladly have traded a good night's sleep for even a moment with the old crowd.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live..." Harry had told him, once, about his encounter with the Mirror of Erised and of Dumbledore's wise words to him on that occasion. Looking at the photograph, Remus thought wryly,_ "these are your dreams, then? You dream of the bad old days, the times that everyone else rejoices are over?"_

He shouldn't want it - should never wish for it- ought never to...

But he did.

And he would go back in an instant.


End file.
